One Day
by liliumweiss
Summary: By day, Emma is the beautiful swan gliding over the waters of Misthaven's pond, but when night falls, the voice of the wolf the people living in the little town hear is Killian's cry. The curse was meant to be forever, to keep them always together yet eternally apart. No force in Heaven would be able to break such spell, nor any force on Earth. Or so Emma and Killian thought.
1. Chapter 1

**hello hello hello! Here it is, my first story for cssns 2019! I'm so so so happy to finally share with you this fic! I've been in love with Ladyhawke since I was little and I don't put watch the movie every time it's on TV past me. I did it.**

**Anyway, you don't need to have seen the movie - if you haven't, though, do it! - since all I took out of it is how the curse works. And some lines and scenes I couldn't go without.**

**I can't thank profdanglaisstuff enough for her miraculous beta skills - this fic wouldn't be as beautiful as it is without her help - and her suggestions, just like I can't thank sherlockianwhovian enough for the bloody brilliant, wonderful, amazing art she gifted me with for this fic! My eyes have permanently assumed a heart shape!**

**Many thanks to the mods of the event and the wonderful ladies in the discord chat: you are all amazing!**

**And now, on with the story! Hope you like it! :D**

**(and sorry for the awful summary, I tried my best xD)**

Sun filtered through the blinds, warming the bare skin of his back, muscles straining beneath the dermis, reminding him of the recent shift. He hated changing in his sleep, he hated it but also didn't, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes away from Emma's.

Nuzzling his face into the pillow, Killian turned on his side, a soft pearl white greeting him. She was asleep, as usual, her long slender neck resting on top of her body, her beak pressing into her feathers, much just like she used to do when they were still complete human beings, when she always sought his body warmth, her feet cold and her nose a piece of ice.

His mouth curled up in a smile as he sighed, the muscles in his back screaming as he stretched out his arm and gently caressed the soft feathers. Emma wiggled a bit under his warm touch. Although they spent half the day in animal form and were not able to talk to one another unless it was through recorded videos, they acted as if they were still human. Every time Killian would caress her bare back while she still was asleep, Emma would wiggle her body, not wanting to be disturbed in her sleep, especially when Killian woke up with the bloody sun.

_The irony_, Killian fumed, shaking his head and turning completely on his side. Almost two years had passed but he still missed her body pressed against his, soft freckled skin smelling like her vanilla bodywash, the one she secretly loved but always claimed she needed to change. She'd be saying that since she was sixteen.

Once upon a time, the morning he was blessed to wake up with her next to him, Killian would usually take in her sleeping form, the curly mass of blonde hair covering half her face, lifting with each breath she took, tickling her nose so she would scrunch it, frowning in her sleep because her own hair disturbed her. He would then push the golden strands away from her face, and Emma would just snuggle close, throwing her arm around his torso.

«Good morning, love,» he whispered, caressing her swan neck with his knuckles, his wedding ring glinting in the dim sunlight. Killian sighed. He missed when she would bat his hand away and he would catch it, intertwining their fingers and admiring the light catching on his mother's ring, the one he'd used to propose.

Opting to let her sleep after the surely long night she'd had, Killian nuzzled her neck again before getting up and grabbing a clean pair of boxers. He was glad the only thing the curse didn't take away from them were their wedding rings, as if they were part of them.

As per usual, every time he woke up, Killian would step in front of the tablet they'd set up to record video messages for one another. Sometimes there would be more videos recorded during the day – or night – if they felt nostalgic or wanted to tell the other something exciting or something new about their research.

Pressing the gallery app, he found only one video, recorded around five a.m., definitely at the police station. He remembered being there after his nightly run. He hoped he hadn't hunted down one of Peter's rabbits. The man would probably kill him, Killian wouldn't put it past him.

Killian clicked onto the video without playing it, taking his time to admire how beautiful she was. He hated that he could only see her in photos or videos, never with his own two eyes. His eyebrows shot up as he watched her face, her curls tied in a messy ponytail and thick black-rimmed glasses that were slightly crooked on the bridge of her nose. Behind them, Emma's eyes had dark circles around them, as she usually had every night when she worked both at the police station and on their project.

Unsurprisingly, she was wearing one of his sweatshirts. Much like him, Emma clung to anything that belonged to him he would leave around, whether it was clothes, a note, food the other made, little gifts. They still yearned for that part of humanity they couldn't live, that _normal_ part that had been ripped away from them and they were desperately trying to take back.

«Hey, babe,» Emma's tired voice greeted him after he pressed play. He sighed, mirroring her smile; despite her tiredness, Emma still managed to give him the brightest smile she could. «It's, ugh, it's just about five, which you already know anyway because I'm one hundred percent sure you still look at which hour it's been recorded so you can check how much sleep I actually get.» She sighed lovingly, biting her lower lip as she used to do when she was remembering something happy – or had a naughty thought. Even after all this time, he still vividly remembered how she would look up at him from under her eyelashes, green eyes glinting with mischief.

In the video, Emma brought her eyes back on the screen. «Anyway, nights here almost as boring as Storybrooke's. Am I a bad person if I say I don't miss Leroy? I probably am. I don't care. Which makes me even worse. Oh well, I'd rather be dealing with Zelena's calls all nig- No. No, wait, nopes. I take that back. Zelena's calls are the worst. But you know that already. It's her voice! I hate it, so high-pitched! And she complains about _everything_. How can she keep going on both day and night?» She shook her head, clearly tired of the young woman's calls about flying monkeys. There were none, thankfully, both he and Emma had checked. _Multiple_ times.

«So, while nothing happened at work, aside from Zelena calling. _Once_. Huge record. But. I've went through some old books I might have secretly taken from the library – thank god Belle's not here, though I really miss her research abilities. I bet we would've already found a solution by now.»

Ah, Belle, the petite, witty librarian _and_ one of Killian's best friends despite their age difference. Which wasn't much, but perhaps it was that what made their friendship so special: they were an unusual pair, had started off definitely with the wrong foot but had ultimately bonded. Killian missed Belle, as much as he missed everyone else. There were people, though, he missed more than any other inhabitant of Storybrooke.

«However, I've found this… thing. I don't know what it is, exactly, but there seems to be a scroll, something called the Sorcerer's scroll. The book I've found, a very, very strange one, you'll see, says the scroll has a prophecy written on it. _However_, what I've found out is that it can locate the "hidden town". Or something like that. You're better at ancient Greek than me anyway, so unless they meant Atlantis or Olympus, whoever wrote this book meant Storybrooke. I hope. Or… any town surrounded by a magical barrier? Ugh, I don't know, Killian.» Emma sighed, taking off her glasses only to run her hand over her face. She was tired, and not because of the late hour. «I just want to go home.»

It wasn't unusual for either one of them to have a breakdown, especially in front of the tablet: although they couldn't physically comfort each other, they still knew the other would understand. Both Killian and Emma had had enough of Misthaven. Yes, the people were lovely, there, they understood and accepted them, but there was a reason why they'd been cursed, a reason why they not only were searching for a cure but also for a way back to Storybrooke.

As if on cue, the tattoo on his chest itched, the lion wanting to roar to life, the constellation inside it burning as if it was composed by actual stars. He sighed, pressing his hand above his heart, the slightly raised skin there pulsating at his every beat.

In the video, Emma's fingers were tracing the buttercup on her wrist. They'd had them done at the same time, with Emma barging into Mulan's house at one a.m.; the Chinese tattoo artist welcoming her with a dao raised, its shiny point aiming at Emma's throat. Emma paid double for the tiny tattoo.

The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't peaceful either. Outside, in the dark of the night, thunders roared like lions fighting for the land. Killian inhaled deeply, his subconscious making him feel the scent of wet wood and musk as if he was still in wolf form and his sense enhanced.

«Locator spells won't work.»

Suddenly, Emma's voice brought him back. He tilted his head, cataloguing the distress on her face.

«Of course they won't,» she muttered to herself, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. «We need to find it, Killian. I just don't know how. There's this… prophecy, but it's written in runic. If you weren't such a Lord of the Rings nerd I would think it's elvish.» Emma chuckled. The video didn't make it justice, it wasn't as warm as it was in real life, when her breath would tickle his skin or mingle with his own before one of them dove in for a kiss. «In fact, even though I'm not a language nerd like you are, I did make a thorough study of which kind of runes these are. Any guesses?»

Immediately, Killian stopped the video. Whenever they asked each other a non-rhetorical question, they would stop the video and would actively try to come up with an answer.

Now, although Killian was good at languages – more than Emma, honestly, but she was pretty good, too – he was a bit rusty when it came to runes. Liam had always been the better one at runic alphabets, something that had to do with his long trips to Norway. Or, rather, his girlfriend living there. Liam always denied he was with her, but the telltale signs of his embarrassment were always present.

Had phone calls still be a possibility, he would've called Liam already. Hell, they would've already broken the curse, probably. Instead, communications with Storybrooke had been abruptly cut off, every phone number nonexistent and, of course, mail didn't get there. Nor emails, for all that mattered.

«Trick question, love,» he muttered, the beginning of a smirk showing up on his face as he shot a glance to her sleeping form, «it must be Elder Futhark, can't be otherwise. Well, they could be Anglo-Saxon runes, if we followed the Arthurian legends and this so-called Sorcerer was Merlin. Can it be? Well, either or. The other ones are either a mixture or a descendant of Elder Futhark anyway.»

Killian sighed and his shoulders sagged. How he hoped he could tease her about runic alphabets and his knowledge of ancient languages, knowing fully well she loved that nerdy part of him.

Pressing the play button again, Killian was greeted with Emma's laugh. «You didn't even look it up, did you?» She shook her head. «Alright, alright, it's Elder Futhark, of course. I'll let you get the exact translation, I'm tired, going to drink lots of coffee and try to put some of the data in the system. Geez, this police station is even worse than Storybrooke's.»

As if on cue, Emma brought a mug up in front of her which, of course, was _Killian_'s, the one with a pattern of ships, anchors, wheels, compasses and other nautical objects, one of the many she'd gifted him when she was going through her mug phase.

«I'll leave the book in the living room when I come home. Oh, before I forget,» Emma added, pointing a finger at the monitor, a warning glance at him, burning him as if she was there in the flesh in front of him, «don't you ever dare bring dead rabbits to the station again. It stinks, Killian. I know Fenrir wants me to give him belly rubs and scratch behind his ears, but we need to draw the line at dead things you want to eat.»

Killian's ears were now _on fire_. _Bloody hell_, he thought, embarrassment flooding through him. As always, he wasn't proud of what he did when in wolf form, mostly because he didn't remember much of it. The wolf always took over, it always followed its instincts. Thankfully, for one reason or another, the wolf _never_ attacked Emma. In fact, it protected her, somehow, as if it knew she was its mate. Killian was thankful for that, if he could even consider himself _thankful_ for that bloody curse, but better to be grateful than live with the regret of having hurt the love of his life. Or worse.

Aside from it being bloody awful, it was also bittersweet: both wolves and swans mated for life. Regina hadn't even left them that.

«Goodnight, my love,» Emma softly whispered to him, her eyes shining with love as she looked at the webcam. «One day,» she whispered at last, moments before stopping the video, the last frame showing her loving smile, one she would reserve to him and him alone.

Whenever she smiled like that, he would smile back at her, the skin around his eyes wrinkling, and he would then dip his head and kiss her. Killian just couldn't resist her, he never could.

«One day,» he vowed with a sigh.

It had been their promise since it all began: one day, they would be human again. One day, they would get back to Storybrooke, back _home_. One day, they would be reunited with their family.

Thankfully, Robin had the morning shift at the station, leaving Killian time to study the inscription on the scroll.

Pulling a fresh pair of sweatpants from the drawer, Killian put them on, walking towards the laptop he'd left on the coffee table. Slightly squinting at the monitor – he wouldn't succumb to glasses, he would not – Killian pulled up a pdf file of scans he'd made of rune books.

Next to the laptop was the antique book Emma was talking about. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Killian might be a detective, but he also was a history nerd due to his mother's interests and the fact that she'd raised him and Liam with stories of all the little details of Arthurian legends every night. Although it was the main reason, Killian loved history because he could learn the truths "normal" historians didn't talk about, truths he could easily believe in, such as the _existence_ of a wizard named Merlin and a Lady inhabiting a lake.

Thinking about his love for those legends automatically filled him with a sense of loss.

Since he was a young lad Killian had known what loss was. It didn't matter that he still had his brother and mother, his father, the man he looked up to, left him. They'd not been separated by death, but by Brennan's choice.

Killian's reaction had not been a peaceful one, the blinding love he felt towards the man suddenly transforming into rage, snapping at the two remaining members of his family and whoever dared speak to him. Only the realization that he was hurting his mother had suddenly put a stop to his behaviour.

In order to make amends, in fact, Killian had started to show a genuine interest in what his mother loved, supporting her decision to write a novel – or twelve – and devouring all the information she discovered, coming to the point in which _he_ would be the one to show her something new, an ancient manuscript or map Alice didn't know existed.

Slowly, his mother's sad expression once again became a proud one, and Killian soon forgot about his father's abandonment.

Liam, on the other hand, continued keeping an eye on him. It wasn't mistrust, not at all, he believed in his little – younger! – brother, but he couldn't help being protective of Killian, watching him like a hawk and making sure he didn't get into fights without knowing how to emerge the victor. Or at least how to not end up in the hospital.

With a sad and wistful smile, Killian took the tome, opening it to the page Emma had bookmarked. Elder Futhark wasn't complicated, translating runes in modern English was more of a letter by letter translation instead of needing to search for the word's specific meaning. However, since not every letter had a corresponding rune, people used to use a few runes in place of the missing letters. Or, as he could clearly see from the first line, they created new runes.

Killian's brows knitted together, brushing his thumb over his lower lip, slightly pulling it down as he tried to recall what other manuscript presented made-up runes. There probably was no relation to the scroll anyway.

Another thing that didn't sit right with him was the absence, in the tome, of the translation. Of course, the book was old enough to have been written when people could still easily read runes. But he wasn't convinced.

Being the old-fashioned man Emma always fondly claimed he was, Killian took up his leather-bound notebook and a pen, carefully translating the runes.

Truth to be told, he didn't even need to look up what each rune meant but, if Emma was right, he couldn't allow himself to make a mistake. There was too much at stake, so much more than breaking their curse.

"_I have travelled the world near and far, my search knows no bounds, my obsession will not leave me, my search will continue to the ends of the earth._"

If Killian had been confused before, now he was shocked. This didn't look like a prophecy, but a journal of sorts instead.

Suddenly, fear gripped his heart, wrapping tightly around it like a serpent did its prey to keep it still while it fed.

"_One thing I know for sure: the name of the Savior is Emma._"

One thing Killian Jones knew for sure, was that nothing was a coincidence. Nothing. Ever.

It hadn't been a coincidence that his mother had brought him and his brother to Storybrooke but, before that, it hadn't been a coincidence what happened on their last vacation in Cornwall.

Killian couldn't say he knew everything about magic, not when he had a brilliant best friend who was always three steps ahead with her knowledge despite not having an ounce of magic coursing through her veins, but what he knew was that Emma was no Savior. Well, not quite. From his part, she was, somehow, but it was mostly tied to what they went through in the past, not to some kind of prophecy.

He cast a glance at her sleeping form, a flash of how she would've looked in human form passing was fast as lightning in front of his eyes. Emma was a bed-hog, always claiming all the blankets for herself and yet managing to wrap her limbs around him like a bloody koala in order to steal his body heat.

His worry didn't fade, on the contrary, it increased. What did this scroll mean? Why Emma? What did she need to do? What other catastrophe would be placed on their path home?

"_The Savior shall be my sister. The family must be complete_."

This had just become weirder. Not only that, the scroll didn't seem to allude to any form of magical barrier and how to cross them, nor to hidden towns in the Middle of Bloody Nothing, Maine

Not having the actual scroll in his hands, Killian couldn't place a locator spell on it to find its owner and get the answers he sought. He couldn't go door to door asking if anyone had ever seen the scroll either, assuming of course that said scroll was in Misthaven.

The little community, much like Storybrooke but completely different, too, had been very much welcoming, not glaring at them after hearing about their curse and acting quite nicely instead, offering them shelter when they needed it the most. Killian dreaded to think what living in a town where most people didn't believe magic existed would be like. They would've probably been forced to flee as soon as someone even got suspicious, hoping they would not be discovered. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, conjuring happy memories to wash away the horrifying images of his seaman laying on a lab table, scientists all around her or, worse, her small figure on the ground, blood painting her snowy feathers a deep blood red.

He wanted to retch.

Killian closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and focusing on his memories of Emma to quench his fear. She was still alive, there was no actual threat to her life unless they found a way back to Storybrooke. And even then, the monster that cursed them would soon take her last breath.

He was glad Sarah took them in, under her wing. How ironic: they'd been escaping from a mayor and got taken in by another.

Killian widened his eyes, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. _What if…_ It was a long shot, and he might find himself back to square one, with nothing more than a bloody book in his hands, but his instinct was telling him he was on the right path.

After running away from Storybrooke - or rather, after they'd been forcefully teleported behind the town line - Emma and Killian had tried to cross the invisible barrier, but neither Emma's magic or Killian's newfound wolf strength could do anything against such a powerful curse.

They survived in the woods around Storybrooke for barely a month, Emma's transformation a horrible surprise when morning came. Whatever time they had they spent it trying to figure out a solution, a way to break the curse, all in vain.

They stopped living like that when Killian was almost killed by a hunter. They couldn't keep living like that, they deserved to live like human beings.

Hoping there'd be someone like them out there, they tried to follow magic, a bit tricky when you don't know what you're looking for, but they ultimately found a trace, a magic different from theirs.

Sarah Fisher had snow magic.

At first they were wary of her, as much as they wanted to trust someone who had magic, they'd ignored the danger Regina represented and they would not repeat that mistake again.

Sarah, however, was immediately friendly. Not knowing who they were, she couldn't have a plausible reason to hate them, but being cautious was essential, they couldn't risk being exposed or, worse, killed.

It was Emma who met her first, in the dead of the night, victim of her magic. Sarah, too, had been afraid, hence why she attacked Emma, sensing her light magic but also the curse.

After freeing her, Sarah asked what had happened to them. Although Killian wasn't exactly in control or the wolf, Fenrir - as Emma lovingly called his wolf, trying to make the best out of the situation - was still a part of him. Or, rather, he was Fenrir, but nothing like Ruby, he was not a werewolf, albeit sometimes even Ruby didn't have control on her wolf or didn't remember what happened during the night. What Killian remembered of his nights were fragments of distorted memories that almost seemed alien to his human mind, and, most of all, sensations.

Wanting, _needing_ to know what he felt during his cursed nights, in the morning he would write everything down in his journal, a diary of sorts, much like a captain's log.

When Sarah showed up in the forest, Fenrir had been wary of her, the wolf's hackles rising and a low, warning growl resonating form his throat.

The same night, however, although the wolf still kept his eyes on her, she showed she was a good person. Emma's superpower - so-called, not her actual magic, of course - did go off on a few occasions, but never when Sarah spoke of Misthaven and how she wanted to help lost souls or, in their case, a lost family.

Misthaven became their temporary home, a little quaint town near Boston, one that, much like Storybrooke, was well hidden and isolated.

Not having any money to speak of - Killian contemplated the idea of producing a bag of money with a wave of his hand, only to be glared at and pecked by Emma - Sarah gave them a house and a job as well.

It was surprising how little towns' law enforcements always lacked deputies.

They became deputies, covering the roles they had in Storybrooke, under the guidance of Chief Bogo. It was almost like the old times, but ten times worse.

In Storybrooke, Emma and Killian used to work together, making one hell of a team. Not that the little town had this huge criminal activity, but when it came to actual, magical crisis, they could do _anything_ together. Of course, they were never alone, they had a whole team, a _family_, who got their backs, but some victories they conquered together were the ones they savoured the most. And the most wonderful, amazing, satisfying victory of all was their little lion.

Killian's heart ached at the thought, more than anything he wanted to get back to him. It'd been too long, _two years_ too long.

Closing the laptop and doing something he never would do, he ripped out a page of the notebook, folding it. Rapidly, he changed into a pair of jeans and a shirt, foregoing the vest entirely, he didn't have time to be fashionable, not when today he could find the answer he was seeking.

He needed to calm down, the last thing he needed was to fuck everything up because he was too impulsive. Quietly, so as not to wake Emma, he slipped into his boots, picking up the folded note and his leather jacket.

Before heading out of the door, Killian cast one last glance at Emma. Inside his chest, his heart swelled at the thought that, hopefully, soon he'd be able to see her again, to _actually_ see her, He could talk to her, kiss her, map out her body once more, but even just being able to see the real her would be enough, videos and photos couldn't compete against that feeling of loneliness and loss that wrapped around his insides like a snake.

A quick glance towards the open window next to the bed assured him Emma could easily come find him. It'd seem impossible, or utterly inimaginable for anyone without an ounce of magic or imagination, but both Killian and Emma, in either form they can take, whether animal or human, can always find one another.

In order to not stop their cursed counterparts from leaving the house, Emma enchanted a window with blood magic so only the two of them could go through it, adding a few more spells in order to not let the rain inside or the temperature to drop or rise according to the weather outside.

Misthaven's layout was pretty much the same as Storybrooke's, with little shops arranged on both sides of the town's main street. There was even a diner, run by none other than the lovely Aunt Em. Granny would probably walk the whole way to Misthaven if she ever caught wind that Em's grilled cheese was better than hers.

Unlike Storybrooke, however, Misthaven lacked a pawnbroker's shop, a shop Killian could very well live without, just like he could easily live without its owner.

Anna, a bubbly redhead left in charge of the ice cream parlour _Any Given Sundae_ after her aunt's election, greeted him as she arranged the shop's windows with decorations and chocolate sweets. He'd need to come back later, it'd been too long since he last gave Emma chocolates or managed to bake something for her. Besides, Anna's chocolate, any kind she prepared, was simply divine.

It was perhaps his worst kept secret, but Killian had a sweet tooth, almost as sweet as Emma's, especially when it came to chocolate or his mother's marmalade. He chuckled at the memory of how Emma, too, had been extremely fond of that orange marmalade, going almost _mad_ with need but not wanting to ask Alice to make her some because she felt ashamed. Despite the decidedly happy outcome, that year had not been an easy one. Of course, Killian's mother just knew, and had presented Emma with so many marmalade jars they still had one or two hidden in their house's basement. But was it still their house? A horrible, nauseating sensation twisted his guts. Suddenly, whatever trace of hunger he'd had disappeared.

Clenching his jaw, Killian rapidly strode towards Sarah's house, a nice little mansion not far from the center of Misthaven but pretty secluded anyways. He felt as if his heart had been stabbed a thousand times as he saw the resemblance to the blue Victorian house he called home.

Shaking his head to banish the unwelcome thought, Killian made his way towards the front door, which magically opened with a gust of cold breeze, chilling his skin and sending shivers down his spine, the hairs on his neck and arms rising.

Although that was a clear invitation, Killian, being the gentleman he always was, rapped his knuckles against the door, calling out for Sarah.

«In the kitchen, darling!»

He stepped inside, the door closing right behind him. He tried not to flinch: as much as he knew Sarah's magic was good, that _Sarah_ was good, Killian couldn't help but remember who else used her magic for the littlest things. No, he wouldn't and couldn't compare the two: even with her secrets, Sarah was a good person.

«Killian! What a nice surprise!» Sarah told him, rinsing her hands and walking to him to wrap her arms around him. «How are you? How was your night?»

Killian returned the hug, her fresh scent of mint invading his nostrils along with a whiff of… was that curry? Throwing a quick glance at the table, Killian could see Sarah was making a new batch of ice cream. Or, well, trying to.

Bringing his attention back to the woman, Killian smiled fondly. «I'm good, as much as I could be after I inadvertently brought a dead rabbit to the station,» he admitted, his neck flushing red, up to the tips of his ears. Although he knew she wasn't and couldn't possibly be, Killian saw Sarah almost as a mother figure. It made him miss his mother even more.

Despite the pain, however, he was grateful she'd come into their lives, bringing them a spark of hope. And now, if his suspicion was correct, she would provide him with the means to get back home and break this curse once and for all.

Sarah laughed lightly, bringing her fingers to her lips to cover them like a lady would do. Killian always found that a remarkable trait of Sarah's, it reminded him of Snow and how her manners were those of a princess.

«Emma must've not been too enthusiastic about it,» the woman replied, stepping back and moving to the table, fingers tracing the rim of a crystal cup to freeze the ice cream inside. Killian had never seen the process, but magic fascinated him, especially magic peculiar to certain people.

«Indeed she wasn't,» he confirmed, watching as Sarah then proceeded to put the kettle on. Another thing they shared was their love for tea, albeit Killian had a more English taste while Sarah loved to try different flavours, much like she did with her ice cream.

Being used to her kitchen, Killian took two cups out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. «What about you? How was your day? Didn't you have your weekly meeting with Zelena yesterday?»

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah shudder. Against his better judgement, Killian chuckled, earning an icy glare from the woman. «Don't you dare laugh at me for my own disgraces, boy, Zelena's obsession is a cross all of us must bear.»

Chastised, he nodded. «Aye, you're right. I hate that Emma's the one having to deal with her late night calls the most. It's a wonder she's not seriously snapped at Zelena already.» His Swan, always so fierce, but a tad short-tempered. In Storybrooke, after one too many nights in the cell, she'd yelled at Leroy that, if he wanted Astrid to date him, he should quit drinking and getting involved in bar fights. Suffice to say, Leroy visits to the station were more tied to a sense of gratefulness than to one beer too much in his system.

Killian doubted Zelena would actually listen to his wife, though, which would only fuel Emma's ire. She would probably cut off the electricity of Zelena's house and slash her tires. Once, twice, thrice, until she would just end up blasting the redhead with magic, ending her life on the spot. And to say, Emma had been able to keep herself from doing the same to Regina for years. Now, Killian regretted he'd talked her out of her very detailed plans to end the woman's life.

«If I wasn't the mayor, I would definitely approve of more drastic methods. Alas, I have to play nice. Believe me, I'd just love to freeze her just a tiny bit.» Sarah's expression turned pensive. «Do you think hibernation could work? Could she tell the difference between hibernation and sleeping?»

The serious tone in which she spoke had Killian chuckling. «I don't think so. You could try.»

Sarah hummed, clearly considering the idea.

They worked in tandem and harmony, Killian taking over the tea preparation and Sarah arranging the table, any trace of her experiments disappearing and making way to toasted bread and a vast variety of jams and butter.

It wasn't unusual that they had breakfast together, or that she and Emma would sometimes dine at Sarah's place, with Killian either hunting outside or curled up at Emma's feet.

This, Sarah's friendship, the bond the three of them had created, was the main reason why Killian still refused to believe the woman had lied to them all this time.

Setting down the steamy teacups in front of them, Killian took place in what had become his chair. Perhaps Sarah never actually wanted to hurt them, but what he'd read wouldn't leave him alone, not until he had an answer.

Sarah looked at him from over the cup, ice blue eyes boring into his in search of an answer themselves «What's troubling you, Killian?»

For a moment, he felt like a ten-year-old, worrying about the world's mysteries he couldn't find an answer to. It was then, when he was pouting and his gaze was lost, that his mother would brush strands of hair from his forehead in a soothing gesture and ask him what question he wanted her to answer.

«What do you know about the Sorcerer's scroll?»

So much for having a way with .

The teacup clinked against the table as it shattered, splashing scorching hot tea all over it and Sarah. A hiss filled the air, and he could see smoke rising from the woman's torso, right where the tea had seeped through the blouse and come in contact with her skin.

For a moment, Killian feared she would turn him into an ice statue, or freeze his heart.

Squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw, he kept staring at her, holding her gaze. Worry clouded her eyes. Did she fear he'd hurt her? That he would expose her secret to everyone? What secret, though? Why was she so scared of him - or anyone else - knowing about the scroll?

At last, she spoke. «Unfortunately, too much and too little.»

Killian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He waved his hand, and a cloud of crimson smoke enveloped the teacup. When the cloud dissipated, the teacup was fixed, and full of tea once more. He didn't do anything for her clothes, there still were boundaries he didn't want to cross. «Tell me.»

After drying her blouse and jeans, Sarah took another sip of tea, pondering. «I shall start from the beginning, then.» Another pause, perhaps the hope that it was only a dream. «For one, my name is not Sarah. It's Ingrid. I'm… I'm the runaway princess of Arendelle. You probably haven't heard of it, though wouldn't be surprised if you had. Arendelle, much like Misthaven and Storybrooke, is a sanctuary for us magical beings.»

Killian tilted his head, wondering why all this secrecy. Her next words answered his unspoken question.

«I was barely eighteen when it happened. I was the only one with ice powers in my family, aside from my Grandmother. You see, only a member of the royal family with snow or ice powers can rule, mostly in fear of what non-magic rulers could do, even if their blood has magic. Mind you, it's mostly like Denmark or United Kingdom, nothing like a true monarchy, not anymore. As far as I know, my niece ascended to the throne after I left, otherwise, I'd be the one with a crown on my head. But I didn't leave because I didn't want the crown: I ran away because I killed my own sister.»

Silence fell between them, Killian staring at Sarah - no, _Ingrid_ \- in confusion. While her words couldn't be misunderstood, her expression of true regret told another story. As it usually happened, there was more to what people spoke aloud, hence why he always knew to search deeper. Emma had her superpower, but Killian had an acute perception, too. There was a reason why he was good at his job. Sometimes, Emma wondered if they should move to a slightly bigger city, so he could put his brilliant mind to good use.

Killian cleared his throat so low it sounded like a growl. «What happened to her?» He didn't accuse Sarah, he merely gave her a little push to give him her own version of the story, one he wouldn't consider an excuse because he knew how easily someone could lose control over their power.

Sarah's face twisted into a pained expression as undoubtedly vivid memories filled her mind. «It was an accident,» she began, eyes fixated on the reflection she saw on the still surface of her tea. «I didn't mean to kill her, I love my sisters, even if I had magic-» She cut herself off, her lower lip quivering. Killian had never seen her so… broken. He almost felt bad for bringing it up, for making her tell him the truth, but he needed to know so he could justify the affection he still felt for her.

A shiver ran down his spine. It was cold in the room, too cold for it to be natural. Clenching his fist, Killian felt the skin of his forefingers grow ice cold. His concern was broken by Sarah's voice.

«I'm the oldest of the three. Well,» she snorts without a trace of amusement, «I _was_: now there's only me. It doesn't matter, they're better off without me.»

«That can't possibly be true.»

If Sarah was surprised by his words, Killian was baffled. Yet, he didn't regret them: even if Sarah, Ingrid, whatever, was a killer, the regret in her eyes and her words, but mostly the way she'd always acted towards them and the feeling in his gut, told him she wasn't a monster. For the two years he'd been in Misthaven, Killian had witnessed a kind person always trying to make people happy however she could, nothing like his own mayor, who instead preferred making people miserable at every opportunity.

The grateful, tearful smile Sarah gave him broke his heart. Drying her tears with a handkerchief, the woman regained composure. It wasn't the first time she had looked like a true queen, no, the way she led the town should've been telling, but only now Killian understood _why _she did.

«There was a Duke, much, much older than my beloved Helga, who tirelessly courted her. She was… flattered, and while I was suspicious, who was I to stand between her and her happiness? Voicing my doubts would only push her away even further. One morning, the Duke approached me. He was - still is, I assume - one who spoke his mind, never fearing any form of backlash when stating the ruler of Arendelle should always be the firstborn, whether they had magic or not. In short, he planned to either marry me and make me his breeding mare until I conceived a child with magic and then kill me off so he could raise the baby the way he wanted, making himself their reigning King. He told me so, saying Helga would meet the same fate if I didn't follow his requests.»

Killian was disgusted. His mind traveled through his memory, the Duke's modus operandi was similar to Regina's in the beginning, when her mother still was alive and protected her even if she went as far as trying to kill somebody.

Placing a hand over her joined ones, Killian tried to instill some courage in her, making her realize she was not alone, that he believed her.

Her smile widened slightly before a grimace took its place. «I was so enraged I lost control over my powers, but not immediately, no, the last straw was Helga overhearing and discovering his plan. Weselton didn't plan on that.» Sarah closed her eyes, her expression suddenly tired. «Everything happened so fast. Helga started to yell in her attempt to defend me instead of her own betrayed heart, while Weselton shouted what a monster I was.» She shuddered, possibly hearing the Duke's words so clear in her mind, plaguing her. «I was so overwhelmed I couldn't keep my magic at bay. At one point, I knew I couldn't let him get away with it, that he needed to be punished.»

Unwrapping her hands from the teacup, Sarah raised them in front of her and staring at them as if she only wanted to cut them off. It hit Killian how much they were shaking.

Sarah clenched her fists and tightly closed her eyes. «I don't know what I wanted to do, whether I wanted to freeze him like a statue or just _hurt_ him, but a blast of magic left the palms of my hands. It never hit the target.» She started to sob, and Killian rushed to stand up, coming around the table to wrap his arms around Sarah's shoulders, hugging her tightly. «I never imagined he would use Helga as a shield,» she cried, cold tears soaking Killian's clothes, wetting the skin beneath. The cold sensation he felt was like being hit by ice needles.

After several minutes, when Sarah stopped crying and finally stopped trembling, Killian offered her his own handkerchief. He then sat cross-legged on the floor, a big, warm hand placed on her knee.

All Killian could do was try to comfort her as he assimilated all the information. There was very little to say: he couldn't tell her he forgave her, because there was nothing to forgive, her reaction was understandable and he would've probably done the same; he couldn't tell Sarah everything was fine because it _wasn't_. Killian bowed his head, his thoughts threatening to give him a nasty headache.

His head shot up when cold fingers wrapped around his warm ones. He returned the smile Sarah was giving him.

Clearing her throat, Sarah took a shaky breath before continuing her story. «Gerda never understood what happened, she only saw me crying o-over Helga's remains. What I didn't know, was that Weselton was in possession of an urn, one he was about to use to imprison me when I poofed myself away. I never understood whether it was _my_ choice or my magic's.» She cracked a smile. «You know it happens, don't you?»

Aye, he knew that very well. Too bad his magic hadn't helped either him or Emma when the curse came. Biting his lip, not wanting to push but _needing_ to know. «What happened after? Where did you go?»

«I emptied my bank account before they could block it, before they could stop or find me. Nana never tried to reach me, not even once. She died a few months after Helga's death. But what I know about Arendelle and my family doesn't matter, you want to know about the scroll.»

His lips parted. «Sarah, I-» he started, but she shook her head, the gentle smile he loved back on her face.

«No, no, Killian, I should've known, I should've figured it would help _you_.» She pulled the chair back, standing up and making him sign to follow her. Silently, Sarah led him to the living room, heading then towards the marble mantel above the fireplace. On it, right at the center, between various photos of some of the people in Misthaven Sarah called friends, along with one of the two of them and Emma, taken almost one year before at Christmas, was a jewelry box.

Killian had always been fascinated by it, especially because of its particular floral patterns, which were painted on the wood with a technique called rosemåling. Killian only knew that particular kind of decorative folk art because of Liam's own jewelry box, one he'd teased his brother about, and one he knew came from Norway. It was quite the coincidence, especially when the flowers appeared to be the same ones.

It was Sarah's next words that made his blood run cold. «After finding an isolated cottage in the UK, I a man came to find me. He never gave me a name: I only ever knew him as the Apprentice.»

That was not possible. It just wasn't. Too many coincidences, and though Killian was not one to believe in them, suddenly he dreaded what kind of link there was between the man, Sarah and himself.

Before he could ask her more about the old man, she started to speak again. «He put me in front of a choice: a cuff which would block all my powers forever or a scroll that would lead me to someone he called the Savior, a woman - one I didn't know had yet to be born - whose name was Emma. At first, the cuff was the most appealing solution, but the Apprentice talked me out of it without actually saying a word against the cuff itself. You know, strange old men and women always seem to have a way with words.» A chuckle left her mouth, but all Killian did was smile tightly. «I took the scroll, and I embarked for America. At first, I spent a few years in Boston but I needed to get a job and, as the Apprentice suggested, work on my magic. So I moved to New York, where another man, the Dragon, taught me how to control it better. When he decided I was finally ready, I followed the scroll. It doesn't have a map on it, just-»

«Runes. Elder Futhark. Aye, I've already translated it.» The impressed look she gave him made Killian blush a little.

«Then you know how cryptic it is.» At his nod, Sarah opened the box, taking the scroll out. It was exactly like the drawing in the book, long, the parchment could still pass as new, and of course was tied with a thin red satin ribbon.

It was so tempting: it wouldn't take any effort to just reach out his hand and take it, take it and fly, run to Emma, and then, finally, go back _home_, back to their family, back to his little lion. His heart started to beat wildly, even faster than after a ten mile run.

«I stumbled upon Misthaven by mistake. At the time, a woman named Sambala was the mayor, but she was getting too old and she was afraid for her town's future. When she discovered I had snow magic, she took me under her wing, much like I did you and Emma. Her lessons, along with the ones I'd already taken in Arendelle, made me the perfect candidate for the mayor's position. As you can see, I won.» She turned around, twirling the scroll between her fingers. «When I stumbled upon you and Emma was the first time I'd thought about the scroll in years, and unfortunately not for its properties, but for what's written on it.»

Killian nodded along with her words. «You'd finally found the person who would become your sister, you found your Emma.» There wasn't resentment in his words, but he couldn't help but feeling a pang of sadness at the thought that their nightmare could've ended much sooner.

Sarah must've read his feelings - she knew him so well, perhaps too much, even - because she handed the scroll to him, an apologetic smile blooming on her face. «Had I remembered it helped me cross Misthaven's barrier the first time, I would've given it to you the moment you finished telling me your story in the woods. Alas, its existence, much like the painful memories related to it, lay buried deep inside me, lingering but almost forgotten.»

With slightly trembling fingers, Killian reached out. The moment his fingertips brushed the old parchment, a surge of magic shot through him, wrapping around his own in what could be considered a greeting before retreating back into the scroll.

He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. «Do you think...»

«Do I think it will let you go through Regina's barrier? I believe so, yes. I _have_ to believe it can, much like you and Emma do. Don't lose hope, Killian.»

Speechless, Killian looked down at the scroll resting in the palm of his hand. No, Killian _knew_ this was the answer. Hope or not, Killian and Emma Jones had finally found a way to go back to Storybrooke.

They would finally be able to break Regina's curses - the one she'd cast on them and the one enveloping the town. They would finally be able to save their family: their parents, Killian's brother and their friends.

But, more importantly, they would finally be able to get back to the person they loved the most in all the world. Now, securely clutched in Killian's fingers, was the means to save him, to save his little lion.

To save Henry.


	2. Chapter 2

**HERE IT IS! The second chapter of one of my cssns fics! I'm so so happy of the response this fic had and very disappointed in y'all when you told me you have never seen Ladyhawke.**

**I need to give a huge, ginormous thank you to profdanglaisstuff for being The Best Beta Ever™ because not only she corrects my grammar mistakes (and the lies I've been told about it), but she also stops me from going too far when it comes to angst. Because, uh, this chapter is _full_ of angst, just so you know. Thank you so so much my Saviour **

**Of course, another ginormous thank you goes to sherlockianwhovian for the most wonderful piece of art for this fic. All the kitties snuggles tou you, my dear Leanne **

**Last but not least, a bit of a warning: this story is _very_ anti-Regina, and this chapter involves non-consensual touching in a non-sexual way but they could be upsetting - and there's also a vague mention (thank Saira for that) of it in a sexual way (Graham is mentioned, that is).**

**And now, let's continue our story :3**

**Chapter 2**

When his eyes opened and met the cream ceiling above his head, Henry sighed.

_Day 722_.

It'd almost been two years. Two years of pain, two years of lies, two years of pretending everything was fine and that he loved the person he despised the most.

At the age of ten, no kid should know what true hate was. Henry Jones was eight when he first felt it.

The first time he'd woken up in a room that wasn't his own, where he wasn't greeted by a bright yellow ceiling, Henry had panicked. It'd taken him a few minutes to calm down and recall what had happened.

While he knew about magic, what with him being surrounded by it and having powers himself, Henry had never seen a curse, not until Regina cast hers.

Nobody, save for the Mayor herself and one other person, knew what the curse would do the citizens of Storybrooke.

Even with the cloud of smoke enveloping him, Henry had still managed to see what happened to his parents, magically poofed somewhere by Regina's magic, the unmistakable shade of deep purple could only mean she was the one separating them. Only after a while, when he discovered the consequences of Regina's selfishness, Henry understood that his parents weren't in Storybrooke anymore.

He'll always be grateful that he didn't run downstairs yelling for his mother and father, otherwise… He didn't want to think about that, not when he sometimes felt as if he _was_ forgetting. Oh, how he missed his mother, how she'd run her fingers through his hair and play silly games with him and how she would sneak a Pop-Tart to him when his father wasn't looking - as if he didn't know about their habit.

He missed the many nights when his father would be the one tucking him into bed and would then lie next to him to tell him a story. Henry loved his father's imagination, how he'd come up with a different, awesome story every night. He loved it - _him_ \- so much that he even started writing his own stories so they would have another thing in common. He missed the family trips on the boat, the barbecues at his grandpa's, his uncle's teasing ways to which they all would respond by teasing him about the lass he was clearly yearning for from afar. Henry missed his two grandmothers, too, both providing him with so many baked goods Henry thought he'd explode. Not that this stopped him from eating them all.

Closing his eyes once again, Henry relaxed into the bed, far from comfortable and definitely not ready to start another day of lies and heartbreak. Yet, as much as he hated being outside and facing the people he loved but who didn't remember him or their connection to him, Henry hated staying in that house even more.

He was about to drift off when the smell of apple pie reached him. He felt the need to retch.

In five minutes time tops, Regina would come bursting into his bedroom, not bothering to knock or wake him gently, all chirpy as if she was the wrong version of Snow White.

Henry still remembered how his mother would knock on his door a first time, calling for him, giving him five minutes to get out of the cocoon of blankets he'd buried himself beneath, and then proceed to come into his room, gently poking at him, tickling his feet or sides until he _jumped_ out of the bed, squealing in delight and running downstairs where his father was making breakfast.

A lone tear slid down the side of his face; he rushed to dry it with the back of his hand.

Not wanting to see Regina more than he needed to, Henry got up, so not ready to face day 722 in that hell.

Downstairs, Regina waited for him with a smile plastered on her face, hair perfectly combed and a slice of apple pie next to a glass filled to the brim with apple juice. No more Pop-Tarts, no more pancakes, no more hot cocoa with cinnamon. Simply, no more happy moments at the breakfast table.

«Good morning, Henry,» Regina greeted him, dark red lips stretched in that sugary smile he hated.

«Good morning,» he gritted through his teeth, knowing she would scowl at him if he only grunted in response or ignored her completely. He'd learned that on day one.

He had learned so much on day one but, as much as he thought he would never feel worse in the beginning, day one hadn't been the worst day. There still were very bad days in which he just couldn't take it anymore, days in which he would go where his house, his _home_ had once been, crying over everything that had been ripped away from him. Regina hadn't left him any sanctuary where he could seek refuge.

Like every morning, Regina would drink her coffee reading the newspaper her lackey Sidney Glass wrote for, blabbering gibberish about some stuff only to get his paycheck; he didn't even care about grammar most of the time. Before him, the editor in chief had been Isaac, not one of the best people out there, but at least he didn't make common grammar mistakes. Though very unusual for a newspaper, Isaac had created a section dedicated to stories, _kids_ stories, a section Henry had started to contribute to, even, anonymously sharing his own stories, a modern twist on famous fairytales.

There was no writing after the curse, no freedom to do so; the only thing he had been allowed to keep, Henry had discovered on the fourth day, was his love for comics, but different ones, not the ones he loved to read. Writing, however, was out of the question, he feared Regina would find his notes and discover he'd been lying all along and that she would make him forget, for real this time.

Going to school was both a relief and a torture, since his teacher was his grandmother, and said grandmother didn't remember him at all.

She still dressed in pastel colors, flat shoes on her feet and her hair was still pitch black with just a few strands of silver adorning it like starlight.

As per usual, save for the days in which she had "early morning meetings", Regina escorted him to school. Henry knew who she would be meeting thinking she got away with it every single time. Although he didn't know what exactly they did together, Henry was certain the man in question was coerced into it.

After all, Regina did have his heart. Poor Graham didn't deserve any of that. _Nobody_ in Storybrooke deserved what had happened to them.

«Not even a kiss?»

Henry felt his own heart break even more.

One thing Regina was strict about was physical contact. It looked like she was trying to make up for missed years of no affection at all, constantly touching him or demanding a kiss. He didn't quite know whether she realized every kiss he planted on her cheek was full of hate and resentment or if she just was happy with herself because she finally had what Emma Nolan and Killian Jones had: their son's love. How could she understand why he acted a certain way, though, or realize every gesture was fake and held no love when she didn't even know what love was?

Not for the first time, as he turned to face her, Henry plastered a smile on his face, one he'd had to perfect in a very short time, unwilling to discover the consequences if Regina ever found out his memories were never gone.

More than once, Henry had wished he'd forgotten his life, more than once he'd wished not to remember anything. It was selfish, but his young heart could only bear so much.

Every touch, every kind word, albeit fake, seemed to him a betrayal, and every day the memory of his parents was fainter.

The intoxicating smell of apples invaded his nostrils as he pecked Regina's cheek, pulling away as swiftly as he could without arousing her suspicion.

No, Regina Mills couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what was fake. Probably it was because she was fake herself.

Although sad, Henry couldn't bring himself to have pity on her. For one, he wasn't his grandmother Mary Margaret, he could see the good in people, even bad ones, even in "villains", but this villain had taken it a step too far.

He waved his hand as he turned around, forcing himself to think more lovely thoughts, like the way his parents used to lift him in the air by holding his hands as they walked him to school, or how his mother would kiss his forehead and his father would ruffle his hair. Those were simple gestures of love, _true_ love, which didn't need to be asked for or given as a bargaining chip for his affection.

One thing Regina couldn't change, however, was the way he would stay - or become once more - friends with the same kids, for they may have had their memories wiped away, but not their sensations about Henry.

It was some kind of tricky loophole, in a way: the people he shared his blood with and his friends didn't remember how it was before or that he was family, yet they seemed to just _know_. Henry just hoped he wasn't assuming things for the sake of his own feelings.

He fistbumped Nick, Ava and Grace in the garden. They were the only ones in all Storybrooke, aside from his parents and family, to know he was the boy behind the children's stories signed with the moniker "The Author". Regina hadn't left him even that. No, Regina had left him _nothing_ of his life, taking everything from him so _she_ would become his everything.

This was the very reason why Henry was glad his memories were still there, because, despite the pain, he was still himself.

Being Mary Margaret Nolan's student was strange. Rationally, Henry knew he would end up in her class, given how small Storybrooke was and its lack of teachers, but he'd always thought it would happen when she still remembered him.

Of course he knew his grandmother would stay professional, but it was also true that she cared for every child in her class, treating them with love and respect. Perhaps that was the reason why it hurt so much; Henry felt like he was as normal as everyone else to her eyes, and not at all like the grandson she'd knitted a baby blanket for or sneaked hot cocoa with cinnamon late at night knowing he would be on a sugar rush and not get to bed early.

Sitting through the lessons as she watched and talked to him as if he was a stranger at best had become less unbearable as time passed. Still, the pain never wavered, it was always there, keeping him company like a parasite.

Once upon a time, his routine had been either being walked home by his grandmother or picked up by either his parents or someone of the family. Amongst them all, aside from Emma and Killian, he had a particular preference for his uncle.

Liam Jones had always been a man of honour, deciding to put his magical abilities in service of the Navy.

For years, when Henry was still quite young, Liam was mostly shipped off somewhere in Europe, never seeing him as much as they both wanted. Only the last year before the curse Liam had communicated he'd decided to keep a more steady position on land after he'd been honourably discharged.

His uncle's new job consisted of ordering people around in Storybrooke, too - Killian's words, mind you - since he'd taken over the role of harbourmaster.

Much like almost everyone else, Liam had kept his job, but his life was still miserable. He didn't remember the little brother he'd helped his mother raise nor the sister-in-law he loved indeed like a little sister nor his nephew.

Now that nobody came to pick him up, Henry walked to Regina's house taking his time, not caring about the homework he had to do too much - he was a fast learner and quite smart for his age, but that wasn't it. Regina didn't care much about his homework either, she cared more about having him make her look like a good mother. She would never be, no matter how much she tried.

That walk towards what had become his prison was Henry's own way of seeing how his family was doing now that they were all strangers.

Ah, yes, the other effect of the curse: destroying the Jones trio wasn't enough; Regina had to crush the Nolans and the Joneses completely.

His paternal grandmother, Alice Jones, was still the owner of the nice bakery next to the Dark Star Pharmacy, but not only didn't she remember Henry or Killian, she didn't remember her other son either.

Liam may have kept his position as harbormaster, but he thought of himself as an orphan, one who lost his mother very young and failed his little brother. In fact, as Henry had gathered once as he investigated everyone's cursed memories, his family had all been separated from one another. Mary Margaret didn't remember her Prince Charming at all, believing she had never experienced love at all; Liam believed he was a failure and one too many nights he found himself stumbling out the front door of The Rabbit Hole; Alice Jones thought her husband took her children away from her when they were little and mourned them still. And David Nolan, you ask? David Nolan lay in a hospital bed in a coma.

Henry didn't know the specifics, he had no memory of his grandpa being hurt and he didn't know why Regina would feel threatened by him enough to lock him up in a hospital. What was worse, given he had no ties to David in this life, Henry couldn't visit him at all.

The only reason he'd found out about his grandpa's condition was the school trip to the hospital Mary Margaret had organized around month three. Up until then, Henry had been unable to ask anyone about David Nolan as he'd had no real reason to. Oh, had he known who everyone believed David was, he probably would have, but how could Henry know his grandpa's cursed persona was the Sheriff of Storybrooke, wounded while in service by someone who had never been found?

He'd known better than to ask Regina about the accident, one he was probably supposed to remember and, if he wasn't, she would just tell him it wasn't something to concern himself with.

His family was destroyed, and he had no idea how to break the curse. Whatever power he had, Henry couldn't summon it; Storybrooke was now just an ordinary little town. But though he couldn't feel his own magic, Henry could feel Regina's and his grandmother's and uncle's, along with everyone else's. No one used magic in Storybrooke anymore. No one but Regina.

That was why he couldn't risk revealing he remembered: Regina still had the power to wipe his memories away. If he lost them, there would be no hope left.

Just like all the magic had vanished, all the spellbooks had, too.

As he slowly walked past _Granny's_, Henry cast a sorrowful glance at the library, its clock broken and the hands hovering over the quadrant indicating it was still 8:15.

It had been 8:15 when Henry was born.

It had been 8:15 when the curse hit.

Whether it was a coincidence or not, Henry didn't know. All he knew was that it only added to the pain he felt inside.

Not only did the clock remind him of the curse, the library itself was heartbreaking. All Henry wanted to do was go back in time, spend time with his parents as they taught him how to control his magic, how not to bring the characters whose stories he wrote to life. Fortunately for them all, Henry hadn't been able to conjure more than a bluebird and not armies of ogres.

The library had always been a safe place, a sanctuary of sorts, whether it was to devour books after school or to study magic along with his parents.

Now, instead, it was void of all that once made it special, all the warmth and light within. Not even Belle, the librarian dear to his father was the same, more concerned about her looks and not as much about the books as she had once been.

With a long sigh, Henry kicked a tiny rock away from his path as he resumed walking. Just like every day, when he walked along Main Street, Henry felt his body get somehow heavier, unwilling to proceed farther.

Henry wouldn't say he was lucky, merely that Regina's control over him wasn't as tight as she believed. Since she was under the illusion that he was her precious son, Regina never understood Henry knew everything about her schedule, which lies were written in her agenda so she could sneak off and see Graham whenever she claimed she had a business meeting. She didn't know how he'd studied her habits so he could stay as far away from her as possible.

Today was one of those days, and he could wander around Storybrooke or stay with his friends if he wanted to, or be completely alone with his thoughts, but he had to be back before seven. It wasn't freedom at all, but it was the only small liberty he'd known for the past 722 days.

Panic started to creep up on him, as fast as a car racing at high speed down a road.

Instinctively, Henry whipped his head around, aware of the sudden darkness approaching. There, sat in her shiny black car, was Regina, more focused on checking her lipstick than she was on driving.

For a moment, Henry stayed paralyzed on the sidewalk, breath itching in his throat and heart beating so furiously he seriously worried it would break his sternum.

There was nowhere to hide.

Henry had found himself needing to escape many a time, it was a constant thought in his mind, but the impossibility of going anywhere always stopped him this close to actually crossing the town line. He would have if he'd known which consequences he would face or if he were able to actually do that. In all honesty, Henry doubted it: no one had come to Storybrooke in nearly two years. Or left it.

Now, however, Henry found himself trapped, lost, about to lose the few hours of freedom he looked forward to every day.

He found himself backed up against a wall, and as his heart beat frantically in his throat, his eyes were drawn to the insignia above his head.

_Mr. Gold. Pawnbroker and antiquities dealer_.

If possible his heartbeat quickened.

Henry knew who Mr. Gold was, it was impossible not to when he owned half the town. But that wasn't all what Henry knew of him.

Robert Gold was - or had been - a very powerful and very old sorcerer, his power so dark many kept away from his path just to be sure they wouldn't be turned into toads or puppets. He dealt, as his insignia said, in antiquities, some magical and some not, offering mostly deals instead of asking for money directly.

Most of all, Henry knew Gold was the one who created the curse Regina cast.

For 722 days, the young lad had avoided the pawnshop like the plague, worried Gold would understand he still had his memories intact and wipe them away or worse, involve Regina.

Ironically enough, he was now Henry's sole chance to temporarily escape the evil witch.

Without looking back, Henry sprinted to the door and wrenched it open, the bell above his head jingling so loudly he believed it would break and fall on the parquet at his feet. Not that he cared much about it, not when he could _feel_ Regina's magic closer and closer as she passed by the shop and continued on her way.

Though the trace of dark magic didn't disappear, Henry could feel when hers did and he could finally consider himself safe.

With his still stiff back pressed against the door, he exhaled in relief, lungs burning as his breathing returned to normal.

Alas, he'd been so focused on his own sensations that he'd failed to notice the man behind the counter, a man who was staring at him with keen interest.

Henry gulped, his tongue suddenly thick and dry in his mouth.

«Good afternoon, lad,» the man, Gold, greeted him, resuming his work. He was carefully polishing a white teacup with bright blue hand-painted decorations, careful of its chipped rim.

«G-good afternoon, Mr. Gold,» Henry breathed, eyes wide as pain shot through his heart: only the Joneses had ever called him "lad". Now, neither his uncle or grandmother addressed him that way.

Squaring his shoulders, Henry stepped away from the door, genuinely curious about which sorts of artifacts he would find in the glass display cases and cabinets. Was there an artifact to destroy all magic in the world? Selfishly, were that his only solution, Henry knew he would use it to bring his parents back to him, consequences be damned.

As he suspected, the pawnshop hosted so many interesting objects oozing magic off of them. It wasn't just the peculiarity of some of them, but also the fact that many Henry knew belonged to his friends and family.

Sprawled over one of the cases as some kind of tablecloth was Ruby's crimson cloak that served to keep her wolf under control when the full moon hung high in the sky; his uncle's sextant was nestled in a cocoon of deep sea blue velvet; what looked like a blue magic wand was on display in a wooden case with engravings of words written only for fairies to read.

Everywhere he looked, Henry could see something belonging to people he'd known his entire life. Propped up against an old writing machine was the stuffed rabbit Grace's father had stitched for her and Henry knew could come to life only per Grace's wish.

What caught the boy's attention, however, was the deep red leather jacket hanging in a dark corner of the shop.

Without caring for the man who was undoubtedly following his every movement, Henry strode towards where the jacket was, not feeling any kind of power or scent coming from it, but he had no doubt at all: that was his mother's jacket.

He reached out with a trembling hand, feeling the buttery leather beneath his fingertips. His father and himself always joked about they had to clear out a good space in their wardrobe to fit all their leather jackets and how Emma owned lots of them in every shade of red rather than in other colours - Killian couldn't quite be the one to talk given all his jackets were _black_.

A choked laugh escaped his lips at the memory.

«Interesting choice,» came Gold's voice behind him, «I seem to always forget it's there.»

Out of nowhere - no, out of the place he'd buried his feelings inside for the past two years, rage made Henry's vision go red.

He had to talk himself out of screaming at Gold so he wouldn't expose himself, but that didn't stop the words from leaving his mouth.

«It belonged to my mo- to a woman named Emma.»

Oh, how painful it was to pronounce her name after all this time. Henry bit back sobs and tears as his shoulders started to tremble.

Behind him, a loud clattering sound filled the air.

«Emma?» Gold breathed, the strange tone in his voice helping Henry to break out of the pain threatening to drag him down like an iron ball. «What a lovely name.»

Hurriedly drying the tears streaking his cheeks, Henry took several deep breaths before turning around, suspiciously looking at the man, a frown on his young face.

Gold cast a quick glance at the pendulum clock. He hummed. «It's still quite early,» he mused, limping then from behind the counter to where Henry stood next to a curtain he noticed just now, «Why don't you join me for a cup of tea?»

The sly smile Gold sent Henry made the boy shiver, eyes wide as the older man brought up the hand that wasn't holding his cane and pushed the curtain aside. He only took half a step towards the back of the shop, half his body and face covered by the fabric so to give him a more sinister appearance.

«Or perhaps you'd rather I prepared you a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon, young Mister Jones?»


End file.
